


Monsters of the Socio-Medical Realm.

by LesBouchersNoirs



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (too much backstory?), A lot of backstory, Arthur is a natural phenomenon, Human AU, M/M, Mutation au, Religious persecution and exorcism, Things will update as this goes on, Victorian, Whelp, here I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LesBouchersNoirs/pseuds/LesBouchersNoirs
Summary: “Who are you?” Francis flickered a glance over the intruding stranger blocking his view.“I am Arthur Kirkland, it's a pleasure.”The man before him was no stranger– his condition had very much taken the world by shock, and headlines were plastered with word of the odd scales appearing over the poor bastard’s hand. But, in a way, he was not at all what Francis would expect about a man growing scales.----------------------------Arthur is growing scales, taking the medical world (and the rest of the world) by complete shock.





	1. Interaction.

**Author's Note:**

> "There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion."

September, 1854

_ London, England _ .

* * *

 

Parties tended to all become the same after being to so many. Glass and jewels and mirrors in gothic arches and victorian decor could only be observed so many times before the magic began to falter, and the faces of familiar guests blended into one disturbing image of déjà vu. Francis found himself staring out upon a crowd of folk from all over, eyes half-lidded and one hand sloshing the contents of a champagne glass idly, completely outside of the typical perfect French manners. English people were all the same, so conceited and loud and extravagant in the worst of ways, and unfortunately while in London, they were  _ everywhere _ . If he had any other option, Francis would have chosen to go to a ball in Paris, or Calais, or any other respectable French city that was not anywhere too near England. 

But as luck would have it, there was not an alternative. Rumours were circulating over the scaled man making an appearance at Madame Wollcaster’s party, and anyone who paid attention to the media was curious to meet the fellow who baffled folk all over Europe. 

Setting down his glass, Francis leant back against the nearest chair, as if he were contemplating to sit but not devoted enough to actually do so; in reality, he just wanted to get a different view of the crowds to spot for the man all were asking to see. 

He did not spot him first, second, third or otherwise. In fact, all on his own, Francis did not spot him at all and was quite disappointed in his failure. It caused for him to actually sit, placing two fingers to his temple to calm impending aches of frustration. 

“Would you, perhaps, care for a dance?”

The words cut awfully smooth through the air, in the way a sharpened rapier would’ve sliced through a metaphorical stick of butter. By chance it may have been that Francis had been waiting for them, or it could have been attributed to the fact that Francis had been out of his thoughts for quite a while by then, and the words had stepped in front of his attention. Either way it was, Francis hesitated his reply. 

“Who are you?” Francis flickered a glance over the intruding stranger blocking his view. 

“Arthur Kirkland, it's a pleasure.” 

The man before him was no stranger– his condition had very much taken the world by shock, and headlines were plastered with word of the odd scales appearing over the poor bastard’s hand. But, in a way, he was not at all what Francis would expect about a man growing scales. There was no awkwardness nor bitter resentment, or any sort of unsightly features and tattered clothing. Oddly, the man (Arthur Kirkland, by newspaper givings and by the man’s own word) was dressed as any English gentleman might, with a suit and gloves and an expression of solemn nobility plastered over his face. Should the situation be different, Francis may have found a chuckle rising to his throat. 

“To what do I owe your pleasure?” Francis said, after a drawn out moment of silence. Of course he'd heard what Arthur had asked of him, understood what he wanted. But there wouldn't be harm in having him repeat it, to hear again how eerily normal such a creature could sound. 

“I am inquiring to know if I might have this dance with you, sir.” Arthur didn't falter. Too many times had the same situation of a dumbstruck prick asking him to  _ exist _ arose since he came forth with his condition. 

Francis hesitated yet again. Arthur was holding out a hand to him, the gloves he wore thickly made (must have costed a true fortune), but Francis knew better than to expect smooth skin beneath the exterior. A brow lifted, and curious blue eyes were lifted to match Arthur's constant gaze. “You may, but should you tread even  _ once _ upon my foot, you will sooner see me leaving than giving you another chance.”

Arthur looked briskly annoyed, at that, yet Francis took his hand and Arthur immediately led him away from the outer ring of the party towards the centre. The gloves, Francis noted along the way, made Arthur’s hands look ridiculously larger than his own; he knew it not to be truly the case, Arthur was much too lithe of a man to have the situation be as such. 

Together, amongst ladies in wide dresses and gents in pressed suits, the two men stepped together in rhythm along to the music, and never once did Arthur tromp upon Francis’ oh-so-very precious foot to send him away, and not once did Francis find himself noticing any weird texture underneath the thick leather of the gloves. 

Arthur was a charm, and the night went unexpectedly well and jolly despite the tension Arthur’s very presence seemed to cause amongst the other guests. Francis wouldn't be able to claim ever that he did not enjoy their conversations of witty remarks, casual criticisms of nearby innocents, and a perfect waltz that lived impossibly close to an unrealistic expectation. 

Perhaps the articles hadn't been very correct at all in reporting of strange happenings to Mr Arthur Kirkland, Francis thought upon his departure. Perhaps, ( _ perhaps _ ,) he wasn't a freak at all. 

Or maybe he was just a little too well at pretending to be normal. Whichever the case, Francis found himself with the subtle strings of longing plaguing him as he returned home, thoughts of the not-so-normal Arthur Kirkland remaining stubbornly in his mind. 


	2. Past.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone starts somewhere, every neoplasm starts as an idea and grows into something utterly terrible, and Arthur was not always all the rage of society's headlines and news articles.

February 16, 1839.

 _Paignton, England_.

* * *

 

“Mum?” A still-shrill boy’s voice called through the house, the sounds of unmistakable heavy footsteps following its sound. The boy clutched his left wrist tightly with his other hand, hand caught gone limp by choice.

He’d just reached the room where she was sat when the pages of a novel were brought to a close, and her charmingly bright eyes were put onto the attention of her youngest son. “Aye, Arthur? Did you hurt your hand, what might be the matter?” Her arms were opened like the doors to a castle, and Arthur was all too soon wriggling up onto the chair with her to sit and explain.

“My hand’s not been quite right, it doesn't feel any good.”

His mother (whose name was Boudica Kirkland, and certainly not just _mum_ ) tutted him, and took his hand into hers. “ _Very_ good, Arthur. Not _any_ good. What does it feel like, then? Are you aching?” Her thumb swiped over the back of his hand, and to her dismay, it did seem that Arthur certainly did have _something_ wrong, but what it was she couldn't place a finger upon. The skin felt dry, and rough, as if he'd replaced it with the back of a forest stone.

“No, not aching, but I can't move it proper, mum, it doesn't want to move.” Arthur, to demonstrate, tried to curl his fingers. His fingers, as any could predict, would not curl all the way into a fist and instead stopped partway there. Boudica furrowed her brow at the display, trying to push Arthur’s small little fingers to a further bend; she found that she could not.

Her lips pursed, and an arm coiled around the back of her child to keep him close. “I’ll beckon the doctor over immediately.”

Her eldest son, Alasdair, was sent off to fetch a doctor to consult over the oddness of Arthur’s hand, while her daughter put on the kettle and her last two boys were sent off to collect more wood for a nice toasty fire. The doctor arrived with Alasdair not too much longer after Arthur had been situated with a nice cup of tea and a blanket, and let to curl up on the couch nearest the fire as if he were struck by a horrible illness, and though Arthur certainly did not deny the special treatment, he knew it wasn't much necessary as he wasn't at all suffering; his hand was simply not behaving like a hand should be.

“My heavens!” Cried the doctor quite dramatically upon prodding at Arthur’s hand. “I can state with honesty I have not seen a case like this in a boy so young in all of my days of doctoring, nor have I known a cure to be found for anybody older with stiff bones and tough skin. The most extreme of ideas would be to amputate, but unless it is truly awry, I would not much suggest doing that at all. Does it hurt you, boy?”

“No,” said Arthur, plainly.

“You see?” Said the doctor, standing. “I would let it to sit and see where it goes, should it become worse I might offer you herbs, but until then there is simply nothing I can do that will not hurt the child more.” The doctor’s hand was roughly cast to ruffle Arthur’s hair, and Arthur in that moment had never a greater urge to bite someone than he did with his head pushed down and shook around.

* * *

 

July 25, 1850.

_ Manchester, England _ .

* * *

 

The sky was long since dark, stars littering the blackness of it like the water of a deep loch icing over for winter. The moon was bright and full and distracting that night, and Arthur was sure that there were hundreds of poets across the British isles singing their praises to her beauty at the very moment. Arthur was sat in his room, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and fingers dotted with smudges of ink, a feather pen in hand, and his ankles crossed neatly and tucked just hardly behind the front legs of his chair. He'd found himself in a rut where no words would rise to his mind to be put on the page before him, but he wasn't quite ready to call it a night and retire to bed. 

He yawned and stretched his body like a very large, lazy cat, leaning back until his chair began to tip precariously away from the desk, putting the pen down flat on the desk. Silence fell over his home for the matter of moments he was suspended, no floorboard creak nor rustling branches breaking through the quiet tranquility. Arthur rebalanced the chair onto all fours, and stood, rolling his shoulders and wringing his hands…

… Then being left to wonder as an odd texture struck him in return to the action. Again, he brought the fingertips of his right hand over the knuckles of his left, again, and again, all movements featuring the same smooth, edged bump. A blemish? Arthur shot a hard stare down at his own outstretched hand, eyes opening a touch wider to the sight of a perfectly polished, completely out of place scale adorned just above the first knuckle. 


	3. Linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur has not forgotten the man he met.

October 8, 1854.   
_Manchester, England._ ~~~~

* * *

At times, it felt like a dull desire. A core heaviness pulling at his heart, crooning for something else, something different, something… something. Arthur wasn't the most involved with his desires, anymore; with business in work and appointments and scheduled meetings, and his dear friends pulling him along to parties to become the centre of attention against his hope for a quiet night, he didn't have the time to bother with doing some of the many things that kept him happy. But that _ache_ , that insufferable feeling that just wouldn't go away, what was it? It couldn't be what he thought, that would merely count as _pathetic_ and _pitiful_ and other rude words beginning with ‘p’, not very gentlemanly at all, and how would it even work? It was impossible to claim that maybe, possibly, he held some sort of a chance.

  
Especially not with a man as eloquent and handsome as Francis.

  
Arthur found himself leaning back in the same chair that he'd been in when he'd found that first scale on his first knuckle, running his hands through his hair with a dull hiss of a noise. It was ridiculous to be so infatuated after one night, ridiculous for him to think anything more of Francis than a charitable man willing to humour such a terrible freak such as the man with scales.   
But the passion had felt so real, so fiery, and he and Francis had been flush close by the end of the night, and not once had Francis flinched away from Arthur’s left hand. It almost felt like he was normal, a feeling which was ever so rare as of late.   
Arthur rubbed over his hand, removed the glove hiding polished, intricate scales in patches over the skin. For a moment, he scowled, glaring out the wretched things as foul as could be, cursing their very existence for ruining him, _ruining_ his chance to love, tearing apart his identity and turning him to nothing more than a terrible, ugly disease; how could he dare to expect affection, not just polite manners? How dare he yearn for anything more?   
His hand clenched into a fist, slamming down on his desk and knocking over his container of pens, only serving to further agitate him and create a mess when there really was no reason for one. Arthur sat there, a hand furled through messy blond locks, body heaving with hard- long breaths, and his infected hand trapped between his knees as if there was someone to hide it from. It took Arthur a while to take a breath, sit up, and clean up the mess of fountain pens. The night was still young, at least, sky having just turned purely inky black and stars only beginning to show past the clouds. The last pen was saved from being brutally forced back into the container, its nib being sharpened into a harsh square and given a fresh refill of ink. Words scrawled over the length of a blank page, as frustrated as Arthur’s expression and as painfully longing as his eyes portrayed.

  
_Dear Mr Bonnefoy..._


	4. Persecution.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letter shakes in Arthur's hand, hesitant for finish. He knows what happens when people don't understand what he wants.

January 29, 1851.

Paignton, England.

* * *

 

Throughout the medical realm, Arthur was a freak. Throughout the social realm, a mistake. Together, with medical and social world combined, Arthur was easily classified as a classic monster, destined to struggle with life and isolation for the rest of his days. Despite his gentlemanly manners, his charming disposition, and his obvious efforts to conceal the effects of his condition, no one would take him seriously. No one would look upon him normally any longer, he was to be forever forced into such a terrible fate that he just wasn’t sure what to do with himself most days, refusing to leave the sanctuary of his own home, but pining over the crippling loneliness that came with such a life. 

Some folks would scoff him dramatic, call him the rudest of names and say the most slanderous things  _ knowing _ that they wouldn’t be punished for it, and Arthur was not any sort of an idiot and he  _ knew _ what they were saying, wrote about him, gossiped of his happenings as if he were some damn bloody cryptid leaping over roofs like the black hounds. But he had reason behind madness, and sanity in those tired eyes of his.

The last time he’d been out, reached out, everything was wrong. The doctors shrieked. The curious onlookers wailed. Arthur stood in a room being circled and pointed at like a monkey on display, being gawked at for fun. He hadn’t been allowed to leave, that January night, hadn’t been given any sort of warning before being rushed by priest and doctor alike, arms in those soft leather bounds they used at the madhouses and his words hushed by the chants and calls and claims- they were coming from everywhere, damn it, coming from every corner of the damn room, and his head was spinning with confusion and fear, and Arthur knew that he wasn’t the right man, he wasn’t what they thought no matter what any damn priest said.    
“Devil! Devil!” They’d cry, “ _ Benedictus Deus, Gloria Patri, benedictus Dea, Matri gloria! Oh Deus, liberas nos! _ ”

Arthur felt like a child again. Scared, angry, wanting to bite. 

“ _ In maledictionem, et in omni virtute Dei ad hostis malignus spiritus ad infirmitatem, amen! _ ”

He could feel their words like sting against his skin, no devil within him but only the shame of religious persecution, whipping the morale of an innocent man before his peers.

“ _ Deus autem pacis conteret Satanan sub pedibus vestris velociter gratia Domini nostri Iesu Christi vobiscu! _ ”

“ _ Amen! Amen! Amen! _ ”

“ _ Liberabit me Dominus ab omni opere malo et salvum faciet in regnum suum caeleste cui gloria in saecula saeculorum ame! _ ”

“ _ Amen! Amen!  _ **_Amen_ ** _!”  _

“Κύριε ελέησον, κύριε ελέησον,  _ κύριε ελέησον. _ ”

* * *

  
It took months before Arthur would close his eyes without the shrieking following him into the dark, a horrid, cruel cult breathing down his neck and raising crucifixes in the air, accusing him of a most shameful crime. He couldn’t bring himself to want to look people in the eyes much anymore after that.


End file.
